#chews on copper wire

[brine-in-my-eyes]

I REALLLLYYYY need to draw the riddle kids' parents so badly bro right now right now i need to draw them now but i have this thing called WORK and i already spent monday n Tuesday not working on it 😭😭😭😭😭

reading this makes me want to draw all of them now right now now now ‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

[florahydevt]

She's a gift 💚

[temtamtom]

RENNN YOU CRAZY BASTARD ILY /p

Got mega inspired by @temtamtom ‘s gorgeous art so I went a littleeeee crazy 🫶

The rest of gay sillies below ⬇️

Ivan will regret letting them go this day but he WILL get Francis back for it (as history will tell)

[judasgot-it]

Friends to Lovers

"I've been in love with you for years now, thanks for noticing dumbass."

Scenario: You literally do not get the hint. Jouno nearly wants to beat you to death because of this, but unfortunately for him, he likes you.

2.5 K words

For the last few years, your life had been relatively simple. Despite having an 'exciting' job, you were stuck doing the same shit basically every day until you died.

Work out, have monthly surgeries, question criminals in completely legal ways with government oversight, and investigate and capture terrorists. Maybe kill them, since you were a completely legal government entity and were allowed to do that.

Same shit as always. It was a rinse and repeat, the only difference was how and where you did it. But it was going to stay the same - something you were going to do until you died.

Just like how your love life had stayed the same - hopeless and stale.

No one could really blame you, now could they? You had a crush on the same coworker for years, and it seemed like you'd get over it when you died.

So basically never.

It sucked.

You wanted to cry sometimes, thinking about how much you liked your coworker's stupid face.

Everyone said he was an asshole, and yes - he was. But not to you.

Saigiku let you call him by his first name, and was nice enough to give you the homemade lunch he couldn't eat. No one was convinced on how good of a cook he was, but that was fine - you were ok with not sharing what Saigiku gave you.

If he was here, you would be able to compliment him and see how red his face gets. It hurt how much of you smiled at the thought, how embarrassed he is that someone liked his cooking.

"Thinking about Jouno again?"

Tachihara looked bored, watching you as if he was observing a bird on a telephone wire.

You swallowed, tasting the onigiri in your mouth. God, Saigiku was a really good cook.

"How'd you know?"

"You're always thinking about him. It's embarrassing." Teruko glared two holes through you; as if you had tried to touch Fukuchi in some way.

"What? No I don't." Maybe just a little bit.

"Right. And who gave you that?"

Tachihara walked closer and inspected the bento box you'd been consuming for the last ten minutes. You tried to shield it from his gaze, feeling as if his eyes were going to melt it.

"Why does it matter?"

"Jouno doesn't give me homemade lunch."

"He almost let me starve once. I'm the vice-captain, and he let me starve! So why is he giving you his lunch?"

Teruko reached her fingers around your body and snatched some rice, not caring if she made a mess as she shoved it in her mouth. Like a sticky, copper-smelling child, she chewed out loud, making sure you heard her crime.

You cringed a little, while Tachihara tried not to gag as he watched her lick her fingers loudly. She really was twelve years old.

"Well it's just because he didn't want it to go bad, that's it. Doesn't mean anything."

It was something you kept telling yourself everytime he did something sweet to you - that it could mean anything, and most likely it meant nothing. Saigiku was a strange man, and he wasn't likely the type to go around and show his feelings so blatantly.

Right?

"He once threw his drink at me."

Tecchou finally spoke up. He looked like he was bored, despite recounting one of the many common war stories that was interacting with Saigiku when he was upset - which was always, when it came to Tecchou.

"I don't think he would have offered it to you anyway, Tecchou. No offense, but that's just yours and Saigiku's relationship..."

"That's another thing! You call him by his first name! It's like you're his girlfriend or something."

Teruko was laying on the punches, nearly spitting in your face as she throughout her accusations. It made you want to hide - he would never like the idea, and you would rather die than lose what you two currently had. It was the closest you could get to being anything like that anyway, so you wouldn't want to ruin it by overstepping a boundary like that.

"We're just close!"

"So close that you have sex together."

That made you nearly choke. Tecchou didn't even bat an eye, instead staring at the floor as he continued his pushups on the meeting room floor.

"We do not have sex together. What made you think that?"

This was it. You were going to die, and it was from choking caused by sheer embarrassment. Where was Saigiku when you needed him?

"Then why were you moaning in his office yesterday?"

"I was showing him how women fake orgasms. Like a good friend does."

The conversation was fresh in your mind - he was saying that he had never had a woman fake an orgasm, of course, you had to prove how easy it was to fake it. It had you both on the floor in laughter, because it was a little ridiculous; even if a part of you wished that it was real.

Hiding those thoughts from him was a little difficult, but it was easy when you hid it under the gauze of laughter.

"That's not a normal friend conversation..."

"We're just that close."

That might have been your favorite part of being with Saigiku. Even if you would never be with him, you could always have him in that close bond.

You were close. That was it. Close, like friends.

-

"Y/n."

Saigiku's voice was deeper than it usually was - either because he was tired, or because the phone distorted his voice to a deeper pitch. Maybe a mix of both.

"Saigiku. How are you?"

"Dying. That mission was awful, I don't know why Fukuchi would make me do it alone."

"I wish I could have gone with you-"

"You would have died. Literally. I would rather it be me than you." His voice was so serious, you wish you could slap it out of him. Or kiss.

"Shut up! You don't know that."

"I do. You need a big strong man to protect you, considering how you can't even walk with your own two feet."

"I only tripped one time, dickhead. Also, sexism isn't a cute look on you."

You could hear how he huffed with laughter. He must have been dead on his feet - he could last so much longer when he bantered with you. The man had petty insults on you for days, saved up for the most random conversations between the two of you. This call could have lasted hours.

"Y/n. I'm coming over to yours. It's closer to the train station."

"This is the warning you're giving me? I'm in my pajamas, you know?"

"I'd rather have you in nothing at all."

And what the hell do you say to that? A noise came out of your throat, but there weren't words to accompany it. You were left there standing by your kitchen table, where you'd left your phone to charge, when Saigiku had waved his temporary goodbyes.

He said those kinds of things, and it was impossible to know if it was a joke or genuine.

It left you a little nervous, cleaning up your apartment for his arrival. You weren't messy, per say - but compared to him, you were a disaster.

Saigiku was a man who kept his apartment organized with mathematical precision. Even with the job he had, the dishes were clean and the laundry was always folded. He owned exactly fourteen pairs of everything, so he could keep his clothes in a perfect dry clean laundry rotation.

He was a bit of a psychopath, in that aspect.

You, on the other hand, looked like a mess. God forbid you had clean laundry that wasn't ironed to perfection. Maybe you were a little messy - eating off of paper plates once and a while, and leaving soap residue around your bathroom.

The man never failed to notice, and he would gladly make it a spat between the two of you. Sometimes you left it messy on purpose, just to see him fold your laundry and do your dishes - domesticating Saigiku was a funny sight, especially when he was still arguing with you.

But tonight he was tired. Maybe in the morning, you could force him to make you breakfast.

Right now? You'd give him the peace of mind of having clean dishes to eat off of.

Because you were a good friend, you had to remind yourself.

There was nothing to the feeling of seeing him behind your front door. His warm smile meant nothing, and neither did the hug he gave only to you in moments like these.

The extra long second between the two of you, where he swayed his feet and put his nose against your hair - it was nothing special, because you were just two close friends greeting each other after a bad day of work.

If Saigiku had looked at you with his eyes, he probably wouldn't have shown you anything special in there either. Ignoring the feeling in your body at every touch had become second nature, because you knew that he felt nothing for you.

He only lingered because he cared about you. Nothing more.

-

"Did you have sex with Jouno finally?"

"Why would you think that?"

Tachihara merely stared at you - he looked exhausted, as if you had told him the same unfunny joke for three years straight.

To be fair, even you were sick of your pining. It was stale and old, to be after the same man with no results.

"You walked in with him today?"

"That's because he slept over at my place. He's done that a lot - nothing special."

The ginger looked at you as if you had grown two heads, but really, it was nothing new, and he knew that. Letting a man like Saigiku spend a night at your place?

There was always something to it. You were lying to yourself, but you didn't want to break the charade and hurt yourself.

"Is it?"

"He doesn't like me."

"Don't say that-"

"He doesn't. Trust me, if he did, I would have noticed already."

Last night you had fallen asleep on top of him, and neither of you had said anything. You had stayed like that for maybe a minute, or possibly ten - nothing was said about heartbeat, and nothing was said about how your hands were in places they didn't belong.

He had gotten up, and woken you up with breakfast; like a disgruntled housewife. No other man in your life had ever done that for you, but you weren't going to let yourself think it meant anything special.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." The doubt that sat in your stomach was dutifully ignored as you went back to your work, trying to focus on it.

The feeling went to the back of your mind once again. It didn't even exist, really; as long as Saigiku wasn't there or in the conversation, you could ignore those pesky little feelings practically forever.

"Are you thinking about me?"

The blood in your body practically burst as you felt two hands wrap themselves around your shoulders. It was a gentle hold, firm as they squeezed through your uniform.

They were familiar and warm, reminding you of the feeling from last night. It was relieving to feel it there again, even if it was embarrassing to know how much you truly missed it.

"Always am, Saigiku. Always am."

There was hacking from across the room, but you ignored it as you leaned against the man behind you, hitting his chest with the back of your head gently.

"You should be. I've never stopped thinking about you."

"Really?"

"Always on my mind. You're like a disease."

Despite his words, his voice sounded gentle, as if he were speaking through cotton and silk.

"What kind of disease?" Once again, you were trying to swallow the disappointment that built up inside of your chest - you loved him, but you were delusional to think that he would love you back. He was just teasing.

"The stupid kind that I love."

"I'm not stupid! Asshole!" You reached up to slap him, stopping just short of his face. He grabbed your wrists, entangling your arms with yours and swaying your body together as he shook his head.

"Yeah, you are."

"Am not."

"Y/n. I love you."

Saigiku's face was close to yours, and you could feel how he smelled your hair like the freak he was.

I love you?

"Fucking hell don't make me repeat it. Isn't it obvious?"

"Oh...I love you too?" You almost wanted to cry, because what the fuck was going on. It was hard to even let yourself think in the moment, because the man was taking up your space and was saying words you wanted to hear-

This couldn't be real. Maybe you were under attack, because this felt too good to be true.

"Not as a friend. I mean in the 'I want to go back home with you' kind of way."

"We already do that." You didn't know why you said that - you were waiting for his face to twist into a grimace, or for an annoyed groan to sound. But instead, he kept a smile on there, waiting patiently.

"Get the point. I want to kiss you. And do the other things boring couples do."

"...Oh."

You spun your chair around to face him properly. There was the chance to breathe again, without smelling his fancy cologne and the smell of fireworks on his uniform.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

The man before you sighed. It was a low whine, a sound you never expected to hear from him.

"I did tell you. I've been telling you every day. You just don't notice anything. Seriously, do you think I would wake up and make breakfast for just anyone?"

Saigiku leaned in close as he said this, his lips close enough to yours that you could see how smooth they were.

Reaching your hand up, you brought it to his face, carefully tracing lines across his smooth skin.

"Sorry."

Pulling him in closer felt embarassing - it was something you had imagined, but having him in your hands right there had your limbs nearly falling apart.

You expected a kiss, like your fantasies; but instead, his arms wrapped around you in a tight hug, dragging you up from your chair like a cat and up into his arms, standing with him. Your legs felt weak, and there was an embarrassed feeling creeping up as you pressed your body weight against his.

"You should be sorry. I thought you were doing it on purpose."

"And if I was?"

"Then maybe I'll let you go. Seriously, why can't you stand?"

He was swaying the both of you gently, his arms locked firmly against your waist and holding you gently. His body was warm and smelled like him, protecting you from the AC and the overwhelming smell of the building.

"Because I fell for you, Saigiku."

"Yeah, I'm dropping you."

Despite this, he held you for longer than was socially acceptable.

This was for my valentine's event, remember that? remember how i have an event? that im supposed to be writing for? haha me neither.....yeaaaa me neither.

sorry to the people who requested. im slow as helllllllll. also you can still request by the way haha

[iguessthisisanewobsession]

Other Weird, Atypical Cravings Jason has had: Bathbombs, Carkeys, Shoe laces, A Domino mask, shotgun shells, crayons, beach sand, electrical cords (specifically the ones with inner copper wiring), Mr. Freeze's ice, one of the oil paintings hanging in the dining room (Alfred was NOT pleased about that one), flowers, hand lotion, a wooden spoon, and Danny (or well, more like Danny just woke up to find Jason lightly gnawing and drooling on his arm in his sleep like a toddler with a teething toy. It only happened once, but Danny still likes making jokes about how he's "Jason's personal chew-toy", much to Jason's chagrin).

Thankfully for everyone’s sanity, most of the unfortunate cravings Jason can talk himself out of the idea now that he’s aware of the problem.

The ones where he gives into chaos tend to be things he can’t actually bite chunks off of so at most he licks them.

Thankfully since he discovered the flower urge it has became more manageable for everyone since there are plenty of different varieties of edible flowers.

Alfred’s rose bush might not be the happiest but they don’t get a say.

[vexic929]

Only With the Falling of the Dusk

Chapter 2

Chapter 1: link

Warnings: blood

Ricki's fingers moved expertly over the various tools and gadgets strewn across the surface as she stood at her workbench, the only lighting from her laptop, the television, and a small desk lamp. She adjusted the wiring in one of her modified escrima sticks, fingers dancing across the fine strands of copper, the small blue light blinking on as she tested the voltage. With a satisfied nod, she set the stick aside with its twin.

Her phone buzzed against the wooden surface, the vibration cutting through the silence. The screen illuminated with a familiar name: Barty. Ricki hesitated, her brow furrowing as she debated whether to answer before finally doing so.

"I assume you aren't calling for a friendly chat? What's up?"

"Montoya said you were at the Chelsea Tunnel tonight," Barty's voice rattled through the speaker as Ricki set the phone down and moved on to tightening her grapple. "GCPD ruled it a suicide."

The screwdriver slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor, and Ricki's entire demeanor shifted. Her eyes narrowed, and she snatched the phone off the workbench, gripping it tightly. "What the hell do you mean they ruled it a suicide?"

"Closed the case faster than I've seen them close anything. Montoya's pissed, that's why he called Batwoman. Thought I'd give you a heads up before she contacts you, she knows you were there, she's gonna want the real details."

Ricki groaned, leaning against the workbench. "What's Commissioner Gordon have to say on it?"

"She retired last year," Barty said, his tone icy. "You'd know that if you kept in contact with any of us."

Ricki winced internally. "Right. Look, send over the police report and let Brie know I'll send her my findings later."

"Fine. But you're going to have to talk to her sooner or later," Barty said and Ricki made a face, inspecting the chipped point on one of her darts.

"I choose later. Thanks, Barty."

The call ended, leaving a tense silence in its wake. An email pinged moments later on her laptop, the faint blue light of the screen reflecting in her eyes as she opened the encrypted file and the police report Barty had sent flickered onto the screen. She skimmed the pages, her brows knitting together in disbelief. It was so clean it bordered on parody - no mention of claw marks, knives, or the unnatural position of the body. Instead, the report painted a picture of an unfortunate soul who had chosen to jump, using the abandoned tunnel as the perfect location to avoid intervention.

The photos were worse - not a claw mark or knife in sight and the body had clearly been moved, now lying unnaturally at the mouth of the tunnel. It would've been less work to rule it an animal attack, Ricki thought.

If the GCPD was sweeping this under the rug, there had to be a reason, and she wasn't about to sit around waiting for another body to show up. Ricki pulled her Nightwing suit from its hidden compartment in the closet, sliding into the familiar fabric like a second skin. She retrieved her escrima sticks from the table, slipping them into their holsters, and set her mask in place. Tapping the hidden button on the side of her mask, the HUD flickered to life across her vision, displaying information from Oracle's database. Ricki scanned through the latest reports of violent crimes in both Blüdhaven and Gotham, looking for any patterns that might connect to the attack tonight. Nothing.

She exhaled sharply, frustration simmering beneath the surface. She knew it would be a long shot. If the culprit was so determined to cover their tracks that they had the GCPD in their pocket, then it was unlikely there would be anything. Still, she'd been hoping for some sort of lead.

With Haly settled back into his bed with a chew toy and the TV still murmuring in the background, Ricki slipped out of her apartment window and into the Blüdhaven night. Her boots hit the fire escape lightly as she ascended, scaling the building with ease until she reached the rooftop. From there, she had a clear view of the city - the sea of lights flickering in the dark, a mirror of the stars above. The streets of Blüdhaven were quieter than Gotham's but still carried an undercurrent of danger.

"Alright, Blüd, what've you got for me tonight?" Ricki murmured, tapping her comms to activate the police scanner.

Static crackled through the comms as Ricki settled into a crouch, her eyes scanning the cityscape below. The scanner cycled through the familiar frequencies, the rapid-fire chatter of police codes and updates humming in her ear. Nothing out of the ordinary. A few routine break-ins, a drunk and disorderly, a minor fender-bender. Nothing that warranted her immediate attention. Good.

Oracle's icon flashed across the HUD, taking her by surprise - Barty didn't make it a habit of stretching the commlink that far, he usually stuck to Gotham's vigilantes.

"Nightwing: Delta protocol. Montoya was attacked - he's safe, Hood got to him in time, but consider anyone who was on the scene a target."

Ricki's stomach twisted and she immediately set off, her grapple shooting to a nearby lamppost with a satisfying thwip as she swung herself along toward Lin's apartment. "I don't know any other officers that were present but Montoya will."

"Might not matter if they're in this person's pocket."

Ricki's heart raced as she neared Lin's apartment complex. If Montoya had been targeted, then whoever staged that crime scene tonight was tying up loose ends, and they didn't care who they had to kill. Ricki landed on the fire escape outside Lin's window with practiced ease, the slight metallic thud barely audible in the stillness of the night. The window was ajar but darkness swallowed the room beyond.

The dark interior of Lin's apartment felt unnervingly still as Ricki slipped inside, every muscle tense. The living room was well-furnished though it looked to Ricki like it had come straight from the pages of an IKEA catalogue; neat, tidy, and classic boring beige. It looked like Lin hadn't been home at all...but something still felt wrong. Off. Ricki crept through the apartment, listening for the faintest of sounds, eyes open for the smallest piece of evidence.

The kitchen was another story entirely. Deep gashes marred the linoleum floor, claw marks identical to those at the crime scene. Blood marred the tile, trailing toward the counter. Broken shards of a ceramic mug lay scattered around a toppled chair in a puddle of mixed coffee, creamer, and more blood. The coffee pot had rolled to the doorway, half its contents still inside.

"Oh no..."

Ricki's breath caught in her throat, her pulse hammering in her ears. She stepped carefully over the broken shards, her eyes darting from one piece of evidence to the next. She needed to find out if Lin was still here - alive or dead. The blood trail led into the adjacent hallway as though she'd had been dragged. Ricki followed it, bracing herself as she pushed open the bedroom door to find...

Nothing. The bedroom was as empty as the living room and nearly as clean except for the blood streaked across the carpet. Ricki set her jaw and took a slow breath, her mind racing as she took in the scene. Someone had taken Lin but they hadn't killed her yet, there was still time. Ricki scanned the room, searching for any sign, any clue as to where Lin might have been taken. Her gaze fell on the cracked screen of Lin's cell phone lying near the dresser, smeared with blood. The lockscreen was of Lin, grinning brightly from a towel on the beach, sunglasses perched on her nose and curly hair partially hidden under a large sunhat. Ricki felt the first tendrils of genuine fear unfurling in her chest. Lin might be a pain in the ass but she didn't deserve this. No one did.

"Lin's gone," Ricki reported into the comms, making her way back to the living room. She felt more on edge the longer she stayed and she didn't like it. "They caught her in the kitchen. She might be alive but she's lost a lot of blood."

"Any sign of where they went?" Barty asked.

"No idea. I'll keep you posted."

The bitter, metallic scent of blood lingered in Ricki's nostrils as she stepped back into Lin's living room, her senses on high alert. She needed to move - every second wasted was a second Lin might not have, especially with the amount of blood on the floor. Her eyes flickered across the space, searching for any last shred of evidence, something that could clue her in on where they'd taken her partner. The heater clicked on and Ricki heaved a sigh, kneeling in the kitchen doorway to inspect the claw marks more closely.

A sweet scent overpowered the blood scent long enough for Ricki to identify it as trichloromethane before the floor rushed up at her and everything went black.

[emmaspolaroid]

okay but I've been sitting on a whole rayvio sketchdump for weeks .. do.. do ya’ll wanna see…..

rare pair save me… rare pair

[seat-safety-switch]

So I was holding onto the side of this Oreal Cylinder, I dunno what the deal is with shampoo in space, and getting ready to rip the copper wiring out of the access panel. Friends, Romans, citizens: this shit is fibre fucking optics. Light pipes. Micro plastics. As in, non-metallic. I can’t sell that to Unfair Ted, the operator of the local metal scrap yard back on Ontario-9. Grumpy, I helped myself into their bicycle lockup, and took what I could instead.

Oh, I hear you. I hear what you're yelling, although I don't actually hear it because we're in space, but I do notice that you seem to be getting pretty aggravated and covering the inside of your suit's visor with angry spittle. You should probably take better care of the equipment, those humidifier filters aren't cheap.

"There's no bicycles in space, they don't make sense." Yeah, okay. I was speaking in code. You don't want to be too explicit or the Star Sheriffs will come after you, trying to slap a pair of gravcuffs on your ass. "Hur dur I just stole a bunch of small-charge individual propulsion units from this space station," is that what you want me to write here? That's how folks get caught.

Do you know how much thrust it takes to accelerate a human being from zero to not-zero? In the vacuum of space, not a whole fucking lot. That's why I only took nine. Bicycles, that is. And of course, I missed my turnoff and started floating back towards the planet's gravity well. These things happen sometimes.

Normally, I would burn my ass up falling through atmosphere, but I just so happened to have an ace up my sleeve: the several hundred kilograms of, uh, not titanium plascrete-reinforced heat shielding that I also borrowed from the Cylinder. Worked pretty well, although I can't recommend atmosphere-surfing to everyone. Maybe take a shuttle instead, because it sure chewed up my margins when I finally landed outside Ted's shop with a smouldering pile of metals and a huge hole burned in the ass of my suit, exposing my underwear with little hearts on it for everyone to see.

[somestreptomyces]

@wanderingbasilisk mobile chewed up your ask and won't let me answer it so we're getting creative.

Oh this is a meaty one! This one takes place a few years into the Heretic's Hymnal, after Caleb, Beau and Yasha have settled in Rexxentrum and Essek has been in and out as he wanders. It starts with Essek dropping into their teleportation circle in the middle of the night and spins into a tear across Shady Creek Run to track down a bard who has been all too happy to fill in the gap left after the Iron Shepards were gone.

It started out as a simple hurt/comfort idea that has spiraled into an exploration of trauma and the meaning of home. This is my second largest Wip after In the Dark, so its hard to pick just one snippet.

Caleb was woken by a loud thump above his head and the lingering magical thrum of teleportation. It was late, but he had been sleeping fitfully, and he laid there for a long, silent moment trying to decide if he had actually heard something, or if he had simply drawn the sound from his dreams from longing alone. He had not heard from Essek in some time, his last letter arriving more than a couple weeks prior and his last sending a couple more before that, when he had been eager to tell Caleb about a new enchantment he had managed. This was not so unusual, but the length of time had begun to worry him, and being uncertain where his love was wandering, he had no way of reaching him.

Not for the first time, he had cursed his own stubbornness over refusing to learn the spell. Many nights he had lain awake listening for the sound of feet dropping into the circle above his bed, but there was no creaking door, no footsteps on the stairs. The house was utterly silent.

Feeling foolish, he rolled to where his components and book sat in their nightly sentinel on his bedside table and fished the bit of copper wire from it. He settled onto his back, staring at the quiet ceiling above him, twisting it through his fingers. "Essek? If that was you, please reply to this message." Silence. But then- A stuttering inhalation, and the softest sound, a half uttered whimper, whispered directly into his ear.

List of tags

[narrators-journal]

Just a dream

I’m still on a bit of that horror train, so I took a bit of a softer idea I’ve been chewing on for a bit and decided to flex my descriptive muscles. That’s it. Is this super fucking clear? Probably not. But I hope it’s at least descriptive, and effective in painting the picture I want.

I also wanted to explore a bit more of a dark take on my usual writing energy? Idk, kinda hard to explain. I just wanted to write something that crossed wires in a way.

CW: Beware! There be attempted gore ahead! There’s also a bit of a sexual energy, dipping slightly into Ryoji’s darker tastes. Maybe this counts as a hint of Ero Guro? Not super heavy on the Ero tho, it’s just there. The biggest warning is for there being gore.

Minato squirmed beneath Ryoji’s touch, his back arched into his palm, his body offered up for each of Ryoji’s whims. Which, was a sight that brought a soft smile to the god’s face before he dipped his head and began a slow trail of feather-light kisses at the wildcard’s jaw and moved down his neck, then his sternum. “Ryoji…” the shaggy-haired man beneath the god sighed, his cloudy grey eyes focus on the brunette as he continued to leave delicate kisses down Minato’s belly. Each kiss and playful nibble enough to make the muscles below his pale skin flutter, or a shiver run down Minato’s body. A phenomenon that made Ryoji pause with his lips still against the man’s warm skin as he purred, “God, you’re so pretty, funeral lily…” Each fresh inhale of the wildcard’s lavender scent afterwards intoxicating him further.

“R-Ryoji…” And, just like that, the fog of lust was lifted by the distressed tone of the blue-haired man’s whimper. “Mina? Why do you sound so sad all of-” Ryoji didn’t need to finish his question. Because, when he lifted his eyes to look back up to his lover’s face, the pained grimace and tears he saw answered the question. “Funeral lily, what’s wrong?!” Ryoji asked instead as he pushed himself up from the wildcard’s belly to instead reach a hand up to the man’s cheek. Then, his breath froze in his throat.

His fingers. His pale skin, usually the color of a beam of moonlight, was now a sickeningly sticky shade of cherry against Minato’s own fair cheek. A shade that could be tracked down the wildcard’s body until he found the source. The spot where the skin of Minato’s belly had been torn open. A yawning, bloodied maw barely held together by the last few strands of the wildcard’s skin that remained.

For a moment, the sight his funeral lily stained red like this was morbidly beautiful, in that deeply unspoken manner. Yet, the sticky reminder of the blood on his face brought the god back to the reality of the moment. “Ryoji…”

It was Minato’s blood on his face. The crimson color that bloomed across the sheets was his fault. He hadn’t brought his lover any pleasure in exchange for his own. He’d only hurt him. “Ryoji.” The wildcard’s voice called. Muffled by the buzz of blood in the god’s ears as the brunette’s gut twisted and tied itself into knots. “Mochizuki!”

Freed from his dream, Ryoji threw himself out of the bed. Desperate to somehow get away from the copper scent on his skin, only to fall against the sturdy bedroom door before he sank to the floor. With his sapphire eyes barely cleared of sleepy haze as they darted from one corner of the shadow-filled bedroom to the next, the brunette’s heart thundered in his ears. The harshba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump in his chest nearly so loud, that it would’ve drowned out Minato’s voice when he huffed, “Ryoji, what the hell are you doing?” if the midnight-haired man had not moved as he spoke.

Minato?

Sure enough, Minato Arisato sat on the bed. His voice thick with sleep and confused annoyance, but the snow-colored button-up he was draped in seemed...untouched. His shaggy, dark hair was mussed and frizzy, but the wildcard was in one piece. He was perfectly fine.

He was unharmed. Though storm cloud eyes flashed with lightning, those bolts were what allowed reality to trickle back into Ryoji’s brain through the fog of anxiety and the slam of his heart against his ribs. Until, finally, the reaper’s fear had ebbed. “Ryoji.” Minato said in a firmer, yet suddenly kinder, voice that snapped the brunette out of his thoughts to look at his suddenly-softened partner. Why is he so nice all of a sudden?A dumb thought, for sure, because it surely wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that something must’ve been wrong with the god of death to have him huddled against the door like a frightened animal. And, despite his bad attitude and sharp tongue, Minato knew when honey was more effective than vinegar. “Nightshade, why did you jump up like that? Are you okay?” The shaggy-haired wildcard asked as he crouched down in front of Ryoji.

Yet, his quiet, gentle words still didn’t seem to be enough to receive an actual response from the half awake Shadow. only tears. “Hey, hey shh. You’re okay, Nightshade. It was just a bad dream.” the wildcard swiftly soothed, his hands moved to cup Ryoji’s round, soft face and swipe his tears away with his thumbs.

There was no fear. No hesitation to touch Ryoji and pull him from the sharp claws of his hysteria. “I’m so sorry!” The brunette finally sobbed, unable to tell whether the apology was for his dream, or the tears he couldn’t stop when they poured down his full cheeks and over his lover’s hands. Not that the reason mattered, though, to anyone but Ryoji. “Why are you apologizing? All you’ve done is startle me and have a bad dream.” He pointed out, the brunette only able to continue bawling as he stammered on uneven breaths, “I-I didn’t- I didn’t mean to h-hurt you.” Yet, Minato only continued to soothe him. “Nightshade, you had a nightmare. I’m fine, you haven’t done anything to me, see?”

As he spoke, the midnight-haired wildcard moved his hands from the distressed god’s cheeks to instead grab his wrists and put his hands on his hips. The warmth in his voice, the intimacy of the soft skin beneath Ryoji’s palms once more, with no fear or hesitation, only trust. Seemed to be the final anchor the brunette needed to fully realize that his dream wasn’t his reality. So, the brunette was slowly able to pull free of the self-imposed, irrational guilt and just curl around his lover. “I’m so sorry...for scaring you.” He eventually mumbled into the lavender-scented skin of Minato’s neck while the wildcard threaded his fingers through the brunette’s hair. Now sat in the god’s lap, with an arm draped around his shoulders and a thread of amusement in his chuckle, “It’s okay, Nightshade. I’m honestly sort of endeared that your worst nightmare is hurting me.” which, earned a weak giggle from Ryoji before the two settled into a comfortable sort of silence.

Eventually, they would likely move back to bed. But, for the moment, Ryoji simply buried his face in Minato’s scent to replace the stench of blood and distract from how vivid the moment had felt.

[leftnotright]

PROOF APOLLO WEARS HAWAIIAN SHIRTS

“The Tri-Ni-Sette machine is failing. The world will die.” “We can’t do anything going forward. Going backwards, however, is another matter.” Ryohei had his mission: To go back. To before the most recent Arcobaleno Curse, to before the slaughter of the Simone. To before the Tri-Ni-Sette System finally gave out. Ryohei was used to loss, in the ring and in life. But this time, he promises, he’ll win. Reborn had his mission: Get in this man’s pants, or die trying. After all, Reborn was nothing if not an Icarus. (Or: The ‘size matters’ fic)

Parings: Reborn/Sasagawa Ryohei

Characters: Reborn (Katekyou Hitman Reborn!), Ten Years Later Sasagawa Ryouhei, Sasagawa Ryouhei, Vindice (Katekyou Hitman Reborn!), Arcobaleno (Katekyou Hitman Reborn!), Checker Face | Kawahira

Tags: Time Travel Fix-It, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ryouhei Time Travels

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

CHAPTER 10: DO YOU GOT ROOM FOR ONE MORE TROUBLED SOUL

The Vindice was the culmination of parts. The chewed-up, spat out parts of what remained of the Best the world had to offer. The Giants of their time, whose shoulders now act as the stairs of success, steep and treacherous. In the same manner, the Vindice was the culmination of broken, dazzling minds. 

Bermuda Von Vichtenstein was no stranger to eccentrics, in a past life he had dabbled his fair share, and his kin were cut from the same cloth. 

But these men. These men that Ryohei Sasagawa had dragged in, sopping with an untimely downpour, were unbearable.

Verde, the supposed hidden trump card, all but crawled over the metal skeletons, getting shoe-marks on the fresh weld and jostling the delicate wiring. On his knees, Verde turned components around and upside down, inspecting everything like some sort of uncouth child would a shiny seashell. Only it was the very fragile, very important pieces of the Machine.

Water splashed Bermuda’s cheek and he bristled. 

Reborn, the pest, slicked his wet hair back from his face with all the pomp and flamboyance of a preening peacock. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over his arm, exposing his dress shirt that had turned tastefully transparent. He was dripping water on the floor. He hadn’t even wiped his sandy shoes.

Ryohei Sasagawa, the instigator, grinned at the two things he had brought upon Bermuda, joyous in his ‘progress’.

“Do you know where we have more copper solder?”

“Storage 3.”

“Ah, good. I’m so glad we’re labelling the rooms now.”

“Truly, it makes life so much simpler.”

Bermuda didn’t react.

Instead, Bermuda gritted his teeth against the loud clapping that came from Verde as he sat upon the floor, his glasses still rain-dotted and shoes crunchy with gravel and sand.

“Give me my design!” He called out, fisting a pen out of his pocket as his socks squelched. “Blueprints! Notes, surely you have them, I would never create something without the relevant calculations.”

“You’ll have to ask their code breakers, Verde. It seems even the Vindice cannot distinguish your chicken scratch,” Reborn chimed idly, then he stopped, blinked, and looked at his watch. “Ah, right on time. Pardon me, dear Ryohei, I hate to leave you in such lacking company, but I’ve something to pick up.” 

“Sure! Oh, dude, while you’re up there, could you swing by nonna Hellena’s shop? She’s got that dinner I ordered waiting for us,” Ryohei said, and rubbed his hands together eagerly. 

“Will do,” Reborn inclined his head before he disappeared through a swirling mass, courtesy of a Vindice ghoul. 

Ryohei bounced on his feet as he watched Verde all but wrestle a stack of notebooks and folded papers from inside a well-stuffed folder. The Vindice codebreakers floated around him, tattered bandages stained with ink, spectacles and monicals smudged and the frames rusty.

Verde, ghastly pale, looked right at home as he adjusted his glasses and scratched the stubble on his chin. He leant the notebook up against that massive metal base and spread out the folded blueprints. Eyes, quick as lightning and just as bright, flitted across between crooked penmanship and the strict ruled lines of diagrams, ratios exact, footnotes copious. 

Ryohei looked utterly elated as Verde called for paper, and — to Ryohei’s delight, and Jaeger's gripe — began making more notes in that same, abhorrent handwriting. 

“Astonishing,” said a ghoul that loomed over Verde’s shoulder, spectacles glinted red from the fresh solder burnt overhead. “Who taught you to write?”

“No one. I taught myself,” Verde uttered, and started a new page.

“Shame. I would’ve much liked to have them shot.”

Ryohei grinned.

☀

For three days, Verde didn’t leave that amphitheatre of metal skeletons and solder for anything short of a bathroom break. He poured over those documents, reverse engineering his own future-thought to find exactly what the Vindice were missing. 

Because that was their issue. There was something missing. 

The composition and procedure for the glass walls of the Machine. It wasn’t illegible, or convoluted, or coded— it was missing.

…Or, more specifically: Excluded. 

Verde stared, cross-legged on the uneven stone floor of the amphitheatre. In front of him, the pages were spread out in an array. He blinked and moved a page, unfurled another large sheet with the Machine drawn in bright white ink. 

Still, he found no indication of a method, or even an allusion. He was baffled. Verde would never forget to include something so important. He had seen the original package, every paper and file crammed into the small, beige bundle. He, and whoever he had worked with, had been adroit in ensuring every necessary detail fit in place. 

Verde frowned. 

The air in the amphitheatre was moist, perpetually chilled-wet, the walls sparkled with condensation. Verde was pretty sure his pants were damp, his shirt had long become that specific kind of uncomfortable that came from the lack of dedicated moisture sensors.

It was night, then. It got colder in the Vindice caves when the sun went down. 

He was close, Verde could feel it. It was like lightning in his lungs, the smell of ozone on his hands. In a few days, maybe a few hours, Verde would make a breakthrough.

A vibration in his pocket. 

Instantly, Verde was irked. That livewire in his veins died to a low buzz. His focus was broken. This would add another hour to his discovery.

His pocket vibrated again and, with no less than great reluctance, Verde put his future-notebook down. Verde grimaced as he read the notification that blipped across his PDA.

☀

Deep within the catacombs of the Vindice’s Simone Base, the quarters of the only Suns for miles glowed with warmth and the soft scent of cardamom. 

Reborn reclined comfortable across his pile of plush pillows, silken pyjama shirt unbuttoned just right and just a touch too tight around the chest. A tasteful flash of the edge of a nipple. The waist of his pants rode low, teasing his Adonis belt and the strap of Calvin Klein. 

Ryohei grinned as he watered the potted tree in the corner of their quarters, the UV lamp that hung overtop almost eye-searing when compared to the soft, amber bulbs Reborn had selected for the space. The nonna from Ryohei’s favourite restaurant had given the small tree to them as a ‘housewarming’ present, some kind of Simone-style magnolia that boasted red-green-orange leaves all at once. 

“Wow! Look, there’s a bud! It’s gonna flower to the extreme!” Ryohei cheered and poured more seaweed fertiliser into the soil. 

Reborn drummed his fingers on his knee, impatient. Snubbed.

Because Ryohei wasn’t talking to Reborn. No, not this time. Ryohei had seemed to be utterly rapt with another man recently, someone else in his heart and in his hands—

Leon the Chameleon reached out from Ryohei’s arm to gently grab a green-gold leaf in his three-fingered foot, investigative. Then, Leon slowly plodded his way to bask beneath the UV bulb.

“Look at you go, little dude! Self-care!” Ryohei boomed, gassing Leon up as he sat there, tail curled in content.

Under the pile of pillows, Reborn’s pager vibrated once. Reborn stopped drumming.

He frowned as he read the message, thumb running across the black, metal shell. Reborn looked over to Ryohei who bustled about the room, never one to settle easy even so late at night.

Ryohei rinsed out the watering can and set it aside before he proceeded to wipe down every surface to an inch of its life, getting between nooks and crannies for dirt that wasn’t there. He paced, steps light and springy. Then Ryohei dropped to the floor and started counting as he alternated between push-ups and sit-ups.

Reborn rested his cheek on his fist and watched. Ryohei had been restless since Verde had arrived. Ryohei wanted progress and Verde was taking his sweet time down in the dome. 

The pager beeped again. Reborn was tempted to let the damned thing slip between the bed and the wall. 

“Who’s trying to call you? Is it important? You haven’t taken any jobs in a while, is that what it’s about?” Ryohei asked, peering over the edge of the bed.

Reborn blinked at him. Ryohei disappeared, then he popped up again, then dipped, then returned. Still doing push-ups. Still burning with energy. 

Reborn huffed affectionately and rolled onto his belly, a throw pillow hugged to his chest in a way that squished his pectorals into cleavage. 

Ryohei’s eyes flicked; up, down, up. Then he disappeared again.

Reborn grinned.

“I take on jobs exactly when I wish to, my dear Ryohei,” he said slowly, and Ryohei smiled when he came back up as if to say ‘of course’. “But it does seem like something has come up. Otherwise, I doubt I’d be called upon.”

“Is it something cool?”

“Unlikely. At most, it’ll be mildly interesting. Nothing like I get from you, my Ryohei.”

Ryohei snorted, “Not everyone has a Machine to save the world! Give ‘em a chance, Reborn!”

Reborn hummed, “I suppose. And not everyone is from the future.”

Ryohei didn’t pause, biceps working to take his weight, shoulders flexed, back muscles taut. His posture was perfect, flat enough to eat a meal off of.

“Ah, I guess you wanna talk about that now, huh?” Ryohei laughed awkwardly. “I said I was sorry! I forgot!”

“And then you forgot for three days more,” Reborn all but purred, and Ryohei pouted. 

“We got busy.”

“Oh yes, so busy. Running around, showing Leon the whole of Simone Island.”

Ryohei gave a loud whine and flopped on his back. Reborn let out a laugh and peered down at the man below, splayed out with arms wide, warm skin flushed with the workout. Underneath him, Reborn could see the cold tiles mist, the heat of Ryohei’s skin leaving a shadow in his wake. 

“So, Ryohei Sasagawa. Who were you, before you were mine?” 

Ryohei stared up at Reborn, at the way the amber lights played on the edge of pale, silken pyjamas. Ryohei knew those pyjamas were smooth against skin, cool to the touch until early in the morning, just at dawn, then that silk had taken on the heat of two Suns under the same sheets.

“Well,” Ryohei uttered, pondering on where to begin. “I was born in this town called Namimori. My dad ran a gym, my mum worked for the local newspaper. I have a sister— but you knew that.”

“What is her name?” Reborn asked, his cheek rested on his arm.

“Kyoko! She’s the sweetest thing, you’d like her!”

Would like her. Does like her. Will like her. 

“I was the captain of my boxing club in middle and high school. Did a few semesters of university and then dropped out, I’m just not built for studying,” Ryohei continued, trampling that panging thought. “But that was fine! Boss was too scared to go to Italy alone anyway, no way was I leaving my little bro stranded!”

Reborn’s fingers played with the decorative embroidery stitch of their sheets, soft threat against his fingertips. Ryohei watches his fingers move as he talks, eyes bright with an edge as soft as the thread as he reminisces. He’s eager, he’s jovial. Everything he’s kept bottled up pouring forth.

But still, no names. So careful, his Ryohei. Like a hammer in the hands of a stonemason.

“How old were you when you joined your Family?” Reborn asked, hearing ‘middle school’ so many times. 

“Fifteen! There was this big inheritance issue between Boss and his adopted cousin and, wow, they nearly levelled the school! Had a bunch of Mists around to hide everything.” Ryohei laughed, his belly jumping. “My fight— I was in this big cage. Real cool set-up with a bunch of really bright, hot lights, I couldn’t see! So I went and shattered them using the salt crystals from my sweat!”

Reborn blinked, and let his eyes drift to the dip in Ryohei’s clavicle. The UV light in the corner glowed a soft white light which pressed against Ryohei’s skin. Then his eyes snapped back to Ryohei’s face, the quiet prolonged. 

Ryohei laid there, arms spread like a crucifixion, breath slow. He looked dazed, distant. The sacrificial lamb of his Set.

Reborn didn’t utter a word. Not of encouragement, intrigue or comfort. 

The UV light snapped off with a click. The timer run down.

“Let’s go to bed, Ryohei,” Reborn said finally.

Ryohei’s fist clenched. Left-hand side. Sometimes he complained about it aching. ‘Early-onset arthritis’ a doctor had told him once upon a time, because that was what happened when you shattered your fist. 

“Let’s go to bed, my dear Ryohei.”

Ryohei took a breath through his lips, tasting cardamom and smoke and summertime air even so deep in the caves. 

“I’m still their big brother,” he said. “I’m still their big brother. Even if I never will be again.”

When Ryohei settled into bed, it was to the cool touch of a silken pyjama shirt and the scalding brand of skin. And as he closed his eyes and drifted, Ryohei felt warmth lay over his still-clenched fist. Felt that heat seep into his skin and soothe the ache in the joints. 

Ryohei hoped if he didn't say anything, Reborn wouldn't let go. 

Ryohei didn't know if he could do it. Again.

☀

A line of townhouses made of cut stone and limewash paint. Old, but well kept, their windows aglow with a warm, yellow light as a summer’s night took the town. Shadows cut the yellow glass, children and adults, families in silhouette as they set their tables for dinner and toasted to another good day gone.

Taste the air. Count the doors. 

Reborn’s shoes clacked against the uneven cobblestone as he walked the street. He took a breath and tasted fog, tasted lilacs. There was one door too many. 

“This is entirely unnecessary,” Verde grumbled, scratching at a notebook with a pen running low on ink. 

Reborn didn’t deign to answer him. For the past two hours of travel, he had been making a fine effort in ignoring the fact that Verde existed. Reborn reached for the doorknob and swung it open.

Verde’s shoes scuffed the stone stairs loudly as they entered the foyer, and Reborn heard the moment those footsteps all but disappeared. The smell of lilacs and damp came stronger. It seeped into their clothes— Reborn had to remind himself to let it happen, let it breathe into his lungs.

They were meeting in Viper’s territory. They were easily the most skittish of the group, the ‘team’, so it was no surprise that Reborn and Verde were met with thorough investigation.

Reborn stepped over a tentacle that slithered across the floor. It made way for Verde who walked on blindly.

The door at the end of the hall seemed to fade in and out of sight, like eyes adjusting in flickering light. The hall tilted, flexed like a gulping throat, the carpet squelched underfoot thick with saliva—

“I see you made it,” Viper grumbled as Reborn and Verde entered the room. 

Viper was slumped a bit in their chair, seven seats wrapped around a large circular table. Their hood was up, eyes obscured, hands out of sight. 

“You never call unless it’s important,” Reborn said and pulled himself a chair. He sat, one knee crossed over the other. “I hope this holds true. I have places I’d much rather be.”

Verde dropped himself into another seat and immediately started using the table space, pulling out more notebooks and scraps of paper from his pockets and spreading them around. He muttered something, before grabbing a blank paper and proceeded to fill it with symbols and code.

Reborn glazed around quickly. It seemed he had been fashionably late. 

Every one of the other seats, save two, had been occupied by the rest of their company. Fon sat comfortably as he waited for the meeting to begin, his hands tucked into his sleeves and his eyes closed lightly. Under the table, Reborn could see his foot just barely bounce with restlessness. 

Beside him was Lal Mirch, arms crossed over her chest and chin raised to show severe, steady eyes. Her uniform was tight to her, hair pinned back and sleek. There was a thin chain around her neck, barely peeking out from beneath her collar. 

Reborn quirked his brow. That was new.

On Fon’s other side, Skull rocked in his chair. The young man balanced precariously on the back legs, arms raised to disperse weight as boredom crawled into his bones. 

And, in the last seat, sat Luce. Always early, always eager to welcome everyone personally. Luce smiled at them as they all got comfortable. In the centre of the table sat a plate of sugar-dusted scones, cream and jam supplied with spoons embellished with the Giglio Nero coat of arms. You could feel it on your tongue, rich with cream and sweet with jam. 

The basket sat untouched. Reborn could smell her perfume, some kind of tangerine blend. Bright and citrusy. 

“It’s so good to see you all again,” Luce beamed as everyone settled and Skull’s chair clattered as he rightened himself to attention. “Viper, would you like to begin?”

At her bay, Viper cleared their throat. 

“We’ve been posed a new request,” Viper began and a scroll unfurled along the centre of the table. “A set of artefacts. Somewhere in Brazil. The amount they are willing to spend is exorbitant.”

Reborn relaxed into his chair with little regard for the crusty parchment and flamboyant script. Rich eccentrics with a hankering for traditionalism were in no short supply. 

“This is something that can be done solo?” Fon pondered, reading the curling cursive seemingly cast by a quill. 

“Unfortunately no,” Viper murmured and indicated a map as four points took a purple glow of their influence. “The four artefacts are connected and react in tandem when touched. As soon as one is displaced, the others will alert the guards. All four will have to be taken at once.”

“Several kilometres apart,” Lal Mirch said and traced the map's key to get an idea of scale. “Too far for your illusions then?”

Viper pointedly did not respond. 

“So it’s a smash and grab! Easy money!” Skull crowed and crossed his arms behind his head. 

“Read the stipulations, newbie,” Reborn sighed. 

Skull leant over and squinted at the page. It was times like these Reborn wondered if the youngest of their merry band had ever taken an eye test. 

The words ‘covert’ were emphasised. Whoever wanted these artefacts didn’t want the original custodians to know they were gone until it was too late.

Reborn read the payment statement and wondered if it was worth it. An 11-12 hour flight to Brazil and then whacking around in the mosquito-infested, South American jungle when he could be enjoying a night in with Ryohei, prying stories and whines from smiling lips. 

After all, Reborn had yet to hear about himself. Where would Reborn be in thirty years, pushing fifty-five? And how he had played a role in Ryohei’s young life, a role so large he had whispered “Reborn” while kneeling on a church’s floor. How he had made him look happy.

Reborn tried to imagine it himself, older, mature, greying at the temples. Tried to imagine how he had entangled with Ryohei, young and eager to impress, to break out into the world like nothing short of a big bang.

Cute as it was, recalling those young eyes from the photos in Ryohei’s suitcase, Reborn was glad he had met this Ryohei. His Ryohei. Tall and loud and muscled and eye-searingly bright.

Reborn liked looking up.

Skull made a loud noise at something Lal Mirch said and threw his hands up in the air, nearly knocking Viper’s candelabra. The shift in lighting brought Reborn back to present, and with him, a low lying…dissatisfaction. 

Reborn tilted his head forward and let the brim of his hat cover his eyes. He observed. Skull laughed as Lal Mirch half-heartedly attempted to organise a strategy with Viper whose face was lemon-pinched at the concept of cooperation. Fon breathed in deep as Verde’s pages kept piling up and crawled to encroach into his space. And overwatching it all with a smile and a warm, motherly gleam in her eye, was Luce.

Ah. That was it. 

They were lacking. No drive, no fire under their heels. He had been spoilt recently.

Reborn frowned, his Flame stirred. 

Luce looked at him. Eyes wide and alert. 

“Is something the matter, Reborn?” She asked.

There was something in her tone, but Reborn was glad for the invitation. 

“I’d much like to bring someone along,” he said, airy and casual. Like he wasn’t offering to add another person to their already precarious balance. Like his Flame wasn’t flickering and sweeping, licking at the underside of his ribs with the scent of Dual Guardianship.

Like she could smell it, Lal Mirch turned her head first. Everyone else was slow to follow. 

Reborn regarded the woman out of the corner of his eye. Lal Mirch was interested. Her Flame hissed like the white noise of rainfall.

Verde glanced at Reborn with a raised brow.

Reborn remembered how Ryohei had laid out on the floor with arms wide like Icarus after a fall. His voice sad-happy-nostalgic and heavy as he spoke of a Family of a future long past. How he spoke gently of his Sky, too immature and inexperienced. Of his Mists, always willing to enshroud him. Of his Rain, Storm, Cloud and little Lightning. A Set too small for him, that he still wanted to cradle in his hands and protect from the world— 

Reborn looked upon those Flames before him. Purities of the highest degree, size almost colossal, and with an individual drive near unmatched. And a vast Sky who welcomes even Reborn with open arms. 

He could imagine Ryohei at the table, another chair at his right-hand side. Almost seamlessly in place, warming the Set from the inside and setting them on fire in just the right way to send them running for greatness. 

“Well—” 

Luce’s voice broke through. It cracked unpleasantly, caught off guard. 

“It is…certainly something to think about!” Luce smiled. Reborn watched her slide her hands off the table, hidden clenched in her lap. “I’m so glad you’ve found someone you like so much Reborn!”

The ‘but’ hung in the air. 

No one said a word.

Reborn saw Lal Mirch fix her collar, that little chain around her throat now completely out of sight. 

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, Worthless, 11: These trinket are garbage plain and simple. They would be termed vendor trash or junk loot in video games. They aren’t touched by stray magic or mystery as with regular trinkets, aren’t made from valuable materials and aren’t particularly useful even if they aren’t damaged.

A cookie tin. Upon opening it, you discover that it’s full of sewing supplies.

A mildew ridden purse containing 15 copper pieces that have been battered, bent, chewed or otherwise mutilated.

A single, partially soiled piece of parchment with indiscreet scrawlings upon it.

A scrap of leather on which was penned a sonnet composed by a lacklustre poet.

A single note that says “I.O.U.” The handwriting is very sloppy.

A small wooden box that when first opened, is surprisingly full of spiders.

A wiry and crusty collection of what appears to be dried plant matter braided into many strands to simulate hair. It is perhaps the worst wig you’ve ever seen.

A tin ear with a hole through the middle. The back has three serrated pins, slightly wobbly, presumably meant to have connected it to a host's skull.

A perfectly rectangular orange.

A shortbow that was meant to ignite the arrows it fires. Unfortunately, the enchantment is so strong that it instantly disintegrates any arrow that is knocked and is completely unusable as a weapon.

—Click Here to be directed to the Hotlinks To All Tables post, which provides (As you might have guessed) convenient links to all of the loot and resource tables this blog has.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A cookie tin. Upon opening it, you discover that it’s full of sewing supplies.

A mildew ridden purse containing 15 copper pieces that have been battered, bent, chewed or otherwise mutilated.

A single, partially soiled piece of parchment with indiscreet scrawlings upon it.

A scrap of leather on which was penned a sonnet composed by a lacklustre poet.

A single note that says “I.O.U.” The handwriting is very sloppy.

A small wooden box that when first opened, is surprisingly full of spiders.

A wiry and crusty collection of what appears to be dried plant matter braided into many strands to simulate hair. It is perhaps the worst wig you’ve ever seen.

A tin ear with a hole through the middle. The back has three serrated pins, slightly wobbly, presumably meant to have connected it to a host's skull.

A perfectly rectangular orange.

A shortbow that was meant to ignite the arrows it fires. Unfortunately, the enchantment is so strong that it instantly disintegrates any arrow that is knocked and is completely unusable as a weapon.

A standard hinge and spring mousetrap with a desiccated mouse still caught inside.

A copper piece that has been bitten in half.

A fist size clump of hairy scalp wrapped in barbed wire dangling on a length of scarlet linen.

A waterskin half-filled with stale, brackish water.

A large side of spoiled meat wrapped in torn animal hide.

An opened stone bottle of strong, harsh alcohol.

A crudely fashioned hunting trap. It is made of gnarled wood and jagged iron hooks. It is too damaged to function properly but could be repaired and used to trap beasts, such as boar or deer.

A broken hazel wood staff scorched by flame.

A tiny boat crafted from a mouse's skull.

An aged cloth map detailed in a long dead language.

A cracked square mirror that reflects everything under a strange fuzzy layer. Creatures shown in the mirror seem to twitch or gain unnatural aspects.

A deer hide half way through the process of being tanned.

A set of damaged leather armor halfway through being mended.

A blanket made out of rat skins sewn together.

A wooden contraption that has drying plants pressed between two planks.

A half-eaten rat wrapped in a scrap of dirty, gore stained cloth.

A tightly strung lyre with residue on the strings that makes it look as if it has been used to cut cheese. The instrument is wildly out of tune. Along with the instrument the PC finds a brick of strong smelling cheese and a half eaten jar of olives.

A sprung mousetrap with no cheese and no mouse.

A bag of hard butterscotch candies, melted together by humidity and time.

A crusty used handkerchief. No monogram.

A few scraps of fine fabric, too small to make anything with.

A pair of eyeglasses, badly scratched.

A ticket stub to a play that was popular years and years ago but fell quickly out of fashion after the playwright was accused of plagiarism.

A ball of several feet of bundled up yarn, so badly knotted it might take hours to untangle the mess.

An earthenware jar containing a few common seashells.

A rock with eyes and a mouth painted on with the unskilled hand of a small child.

A small wooden box of stale tobacco leaf.

A rusty steel and smoked glass syringe.

A portrait of a plain, unremarkable woman. It looks old enough that the lady is likely long dead.

A small container labelled ‘Dr. Brown’s World Renown Elbow Grease’. It is nearly empty and smells foul.

A to-do list written in Infernal.

A dull letter opener, the handle has a griffon at the end with an illegible inscription, worn smooth with time.

A tankard with the handle broken off; the bottom also looks to be dented, as if dashed against something heavy.

A specimen jar of hardened gelatinous cube gel, so dry that it’s become powdery and useless.

A ratty leather wallet containing a thick wad of paper currency belonging to a now defunct nation, rendering them worthless.

A broken and rusted dagger with a brass hilt in the shape of an octopus.

A defaced stone bust of a fallen ruler.

A rude cartoon of the adventuring party, all of them mercilessly caricatured.

A small, crude, clay pot that looks like it was made by an apprentice potter on their very first day.

An old pair of wool socks that have multiple patches sewn into their frayed and fragile hems.

A common copper piece, both sides depicting a fat-jowled merchant. One face smiles cajolingly and the other sneers scornfully.

A heavy, black leather sack with a brown leather thong threaded through a series of small slits near its opening to serve as a drawstring. It contains a carefully wound ball of waxed twine, a three‐barb steel fishing hook with its points embedded in tiny cylinders of cork, and the remains of a broken lantern.

A matched pair of eyeball sized, square‐cut, dark green stones with bright red flecks. They appear opaque at first, but admit a faint glow through the edges when held to the light. Knowledgeable PC’s can identify the minerals as bloodstone.

A worn, weathered woollen belt pouch, originally dyed grey‐blue, holds bent copper coins in its roomy main compartment and a soiled handkerchief in each of two small exterior pockets. A belt, torn raggedly with the buckle‐end missing, is still threaded through the pouch's loops.

A clay jar filled with “Stinking Orc’s Foot” cheese.

An old and rusty axe head.

A child-sized short bow with a broken string.

The broken tip off a dwarf-crafted spear.

A terribly preserved sheep’s bladder which can be used as a container in an emergency.

A battered leather case containing a well-worn deck of cards, most of which are stained with wine.

A petrified cocoon of an unknown insect.

A single, partially soiled piece of parchment with indiscrete scrawlings upon it.

A glass jar large enough to hold a live chicken that instead contains only a greenish pickling solution and two dozen hard boiled eggs of indeterminate species.

A collection of leather scraps fashioned together into a vaguely humanoid doll.

A cloudy, dirty mirror that one can barely see their own reflection in it

A crudely stitched scarf made from ferret pelts.

A half-finished spell scroll stained with long-dried blood.

A mummified toad which, when squeezed, emits a large puff of foul-smelling black smoke from its mouth.

A cracked glass eye with some questionable stains on it.

A scrap of paper or parchment with an unintelligible note scribbled on it.

A dog sized carcass of an unknown beast that has been recently mutilated by something.

A roughly sewn doll of a cat with button eyes.

A fragment of slate with a fossilized fern.

A crude arrowhead fashioned from quartzite.

A set of colorful ceramic beads on a length of twine.

A petrified corpse of a minnow, hooked on a length of wire.

A small box, encrusted with dead barnacles and severely water damaged.

The scorched remains of a once-beautiful bouquet of flowers.

An old shortsword, long since dulled. A chalky black substance coats it, in place of rust.

A rusty cutlass with half the blade snapped off.

A piece of wood that sinks like a stone.

A twisted handle from a broken dagger. It has black stains.

A stringless lute with puncture marks.

A jar of mismatched cooking utensils. One has bloodstains.

A rusted iron torch bracelet.

A piece of sun-bleached driftwood.

An old and rusty axe head.

A small pouch full of burnt up expended spell components.

A set of four bone dice, so worn that one can barely make out the symbols.

A desiccated squirrel

A small cart of humble design, composed of old wood and rusted nails that struggle to hold the vessel together. The two wheels in the back are misshapen, and the mounting bars at the front are scuffed and worn from repeated use. A second look reveals numerous patches and fixes implemented by an experienced workman in the past.

An old half eaten book with a title on the spine that read “Biology of the common book worm and its dietar...” (The rest is missing).

A large mason jar of pickled monstrosity viscera.

A rusted pot filled with mummified deer hooves and pieces of antler.

A flour-sack dolly with yellow yarn hair. It’s missing one of its button eyes.

A thin wooden case, containing several broken pieces of charcoal, chalk, and a ruler.

A stained piece of parchment with a handwritten recipe for macarons.

A wide-toothed comb made of carved bone. One of the teeth is chipped.

A handmade plush elephant, made of mismatched scraps of blue fabrics. Its eyes are two black buttons, with stitched-on eyebrows set in a perpetually sad expression.

An old leather bridle harness and reins, cracked and worn but for the mirror-polished brass hardware, which always feels sun-hot to touch. The reins are creased and dyed brown with old blood in places, stained green with grass in others.

[botboytoy]

*slowly and carefully chews the insulation off your wires, leaving the copper inside exposed for everyone to see*

*the chewing desire is too strong, mousy is living life to the limit*

-🐁

>>: YOU SHOULD BITE THE COPPER.

>>: SEE WHAT HAPPENS.▮

[catatonic-chaos-climax]

clip your twinks nails regularly to avoid them ruining your couch

also remember to give them stuff to chew on so they don't eat all of your copper wires

[iknowwhereyousleepatnight]

Littke tip!!!

If you want a maybe similar texture(?) you could wrap a metal wire in a shit ton of either electrical tape or some sort of silicone tape

That's what I do(the electrical tape) but I've never actually chewed wires so it may not be the same

fortunately rn i have a bunch of unused wires lying about that i can chew on if i wish (i collect them when things break. for reasons) so i don’t need to But if i am ever without spare wires and am in need of a substitute and i have electrical tape and copper wire on hand then i will keep this in mind

[lieutenant-hdb]

Really makes you wonder how he survived this long if he's Skinking in peoples walls and.. chewing on their copper wires?

Yeah I don't know how he's even alive. He chewed through the wires to the radio ON THE KINEEMA

As you can assume, Kim is not happy